


A Way Out of Loneliness

by Twisted_Barbie



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Dark Thoughts, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 05:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7922662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Barbie/pseuds/Twisted_Barbie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season one episode four.</p>
<p>Elliot is not alone and reasons Mr Robot should be rewarded for staying by his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Way Out of Loneliness

At first I think this is only an illusion, another hallucination brought on by the morphine withdrawal. Then I realise not even my imagination could conjure up such shabby walls and a bed that has seen more action than a strung-out hooker on a Friday night. The cheap lamps with the low lighting cast shadows on the tacky wallpaper and faintly illuminate framed pictures of lone trees. A pretence of sophistication and tranquillity in an overpriced shithole. 

There’s something to be said about the silence of the room. Strange how the absence of white noise from a computer or the low murmur of the T.V. can expand space. How can some people desire such solitude? This hollowness, a gaping void that swallows all light and sound. This isn’t peace, this is…this is loneliness.

“They’re gone.” I say the words only to break deafening silence. “I’m alone.” I clutch my knees to my sweaty chest as tears pool in my eyes once more. I hung onto my hope and it has become my noose. I thought they might stay…I thought-I naively believed-hoped- that they might, potentially, care.

“No you’re not.” For a moment my palpitating heart stills in my chest and I turn to see Mr Robot materialise from the shadows. “I’m not going anywhere, Kiddo. We’re in this ‘till the end.” He perches on the end of the bed and my breath catches in my throat. 

Why is he here? I could deceive myself and pretend he was a benevolent angel sent to watch over me but you won’t believe that bullshit so I won’t bore you with it. 

His cap is gone along with his glasses and he looks at me with something akin to pity. I could lie, turn him away and claim I do not want his pity, but even pity is better than nothing. To pity something, you have to care for it to some degree and isn’t that my objective? To find someone who cares? Isn’t that everyone’s objective? It must be or web pages such as Twitter, Facebook and Instagram would cease to exist. We, the lost creatures, cry out in 140 characters or less desperate for the ping of the notification button as though it were vindication of our existence. We need that confirmation that somewhere in cyberspace someone gives a fuck. 

So now what do I do? I have my avid audience; I suppose now the objective is to keep his interest. I push the quilt down my legs and kick it to the foot of the bed. Mr Robot watches my actions no longer with pity but in silent curiosity as I lower my sweat-damp boxers down wet thighs and shaking legs. I pull them off and squeeze them into a ball before tossing them into the dark room where they land with a light thud. I lay back on the bed and part my trembling thighs as a prostitute would on their first night. I don’t know whether I look tempting or desperate reduced to only a body offering sex, an orgasm, another high in itself. It ignites a fire in your blood and elevates your serotonin levels that for a moment you think you are invincible. It’s just a lie, a trick of the mind, a chemical reaction, nothing concrete or sustainable, maybe that’s the point. 

Mr Robot has always been an enigma to me, aloof, different, something entirely other yet annoyingly familiar but in these circumstances even he succumbs to animal behaviour. He crawls over my body eagerly accepting my invitation and kneels above me, his dark eyes staring into my own. Could this be considered romantic? This intrusion of space and penetrative gaze and breath so soft against my face it could be mistaken for the air conditioning? We are not seeking romance nor love as love is by far the most selfish of emotions. We do not love for others we love for ourselves and in our arrogance we believe that our capacity to love means we deserve to be loved. 

When our delusions are all stripped away and we are reduced to our basic wants there is no more keen desire than a primal need to fuck. I had become numb to the feeling while chasing the morphine dragon and even now I am not stirred but my body is my only commodity and if this is the price to pay for not being alone then I would pay it tenfold. 

Mr Robot continues to stare into my eyes and I have to wonder what he is looking for? Permission? Desire? It doesn’t matter in the scheme of things as either he found what he was looking for or he simply gave up as his hand rests on my thigh and slides upwards. I part my legs further as a pretence of desire and he lowers his body a fraction allowing his open green coat to rub against the skin of my chest. The zipper briefly encounters my right nipple and the cold brush of metal forces it to harden as I bite my lower lip to stifle any involuntary sound. 

I think he might kiss me then, but instead his lips caress my throat so soft I almost feel as if I imagined it. His hand continues up my thigh and then a sweat-damp finger breaches me and I feel nothing. No slow burn or discomfort, I feel empty and numb and tears leak freely from my eyes at that revelation. 

Mr Robot hushes me then and presses kisses against my cheek, catching my tears on his tongue. I want to tell him that I’m lonely, that I need him- this-whatever was happening between us. I want to feel him inside me, I just want to feel. A second fingers enters me but it is more of the same, a phantom touch to a hollow shell of a man. 

More than ever I want his lips against mine. I want to breathe him in, I want to share the same breath and become so close that he becomes an extension of myself. But his lips do not touch mine and instead he fumbles with his zipper releasing his hardened cock with no intention of undressing despite his many layers of clothing. I wonder if he means to cheapen the experience or use his clothing as another layer of dominance that is already in his favour. I forget myself, this is no love match, he does not love me…

He does not love me. 

I lie back on the bed desolate as Mr Robot nestles between my thighs and lifts my hips and enters me with one fluid motion. It should hurt. I’ve grown accustomed to pain, having inflicted many shallow wounds upon myself to feel something but even so I should feel this. Agony. Ecstasy. Skin on skin, his hands on my hips, his hips rocking against me. I want to feel his chest pressed to mine and his erratic heartbeat beating in sync with my own. 

It doesn’t matter what I want. A bargain has been struck, my body for his time, I’d be in breach of nonverbal contract if I were to start making demands. So I lie still like a noncompliant virgin and stare at the smoke-stained ceiling with my arms raised above my head listening to Mr Robot’s harsh pants. 

I could almost drift off to sleep until a hot mouth latches onto my nipple and teeth worry the nub sending skittering volts of pleasure down my spine. Mr Robot laughs then, releasing my tortured nipple from between his teeth and then licks over the abused bud as though it were compensation.

“Didn’t think I’d forget about you, Kiddo?” His hand wraps around my flaccid penis far too tight but the pain is a pleasure in itself. My legs lock around his hips involuntary as his hand moves up my shaft, agonisingly slowly, making me feel every subtle move of his fingers. Mr Robot watches me as a scientist would eye a lab rat, gauging my reaction to stimulus before testing a new theory. Should I feel lesser for the comparison? Because I don’t. 

My cock is half hard by the first stroke of his hand and he releases his grip before running the pad of his thumb along the slit, collecting what little pre-cum was there. I watch him intrigued as he brings his thumb to his mouth and offers me an enigmatic grin. Can something be considered disgustingly erotic? I think about his mouth on me and how much I want it. I want to take him back to the arcade and press his head between my legs as I hack Evil Corps servers, fucking them over as I fuck his throat. 

He takes me in hand once more, dragging me from fantasy back to reality. His palm is wet and his grip is not as tight as he strokes me faster matching the pace of his hips. I wish I could feel the dual pleasure but I console myself with the fact that I can at least feel something. 

His lips press against my throat once more while his tongue licks perspiration from my skin and I am lost. I brace my hands against the headboard as my spine curves upwards and I spend myself in his hand as though I was no better than a teen jerking off to his first porno. Mr Robot doesn’t seem to mind as his long thrusts become short and sharp before his body stills and he looks down on me with a Cheshire Cat grin. 

Soon after he climbs off me, wiping his dick on the quilt before tucking himself back in his pants while I reach over for a cigarette on the nightstand. I light it and lay back sucking in the nicotine as I come down from a high more powerful than the morphine. This should be the awkward moment that succeeds a frenzied romp with a practical stranger but Mr Robot is no stranger and nor he is practical.

“We need you,” Mr Robot finally speaks, perching on the edge of the bed and gripping my thigh. “You’re the key to all of this.” I still do not know why I alone hold the key but for once I do not see it as a burden but as leverage. F Society need a leader while I’m looking for a way out of loneliness and a deal with the enigmatic Mr Robot with the achingly familiar face could be mutually beneficial to both our plights.


End file.
